There comes a time in every mother's life when she is faced with the inescapable horror that is known as potty-training. Now, most people who don't have kids are not very impressed. "What's the big deal?" But mothers who have been through it have something to bond over. Like veterans with flashbacks, they bond--reliving the flashbacks and leaning on each other for support. "The smell! I just couldn't take it!" "Well, then the dog ate it and I had to brush his teeth..." "Peed right on the rug my mother-in-law gave us, right before she arrived...of course she wondered where it was and accused me of getting rid of it!" And so on.
I am a proud member of this group, although I am not a veteran yet. I am on the front lines. I am Verdun. I am Somme. My son has been on the potty train for two months, now. Having tired of merely sitting on the potty when he needs to go, he has decided to up the ante. Now, he enjoys pushing the poop out and sucking it in, thus making poop cheerfully blossom from his anus, creating a perfect stamp to decorate the carpet with. Now as I enter his room, I have to pick my way through fecal landmines, praying I don't step on one and detonate a high-pitch squeal of sheer agony from myself that only squirrels and five year-old girls can hear. The bonds of motherhood are quite strong, but there are some areas that it just doesn't cover. Here's one of them: The other day, (unbeknownst to me) Ethan had a poo-flower, and he needed an avenue to get rid of it. (He had been using his Froggie chair. He'd sit on the frog's head and then slide down its back to wipe. After having to borrow my sister's industrial washer twice for the redemption of this amphibian, I took it to Grandma's to recover). So, Ethan comes over to me, sits on my leg and slides off--leaving a trail of poo down my leg, and me speaking in tongues unfamiliar to men and angels.
The hardest part, for me, is not knowing when it will end. It could be months, or even a year. Right now, I'm trying not to crawl into a corner and into the fetal position--rocking back and forth and drooling graham cracker on myself. So to everyone who's been through it, lucky you. You're done. To all who's going through it now, let us unite in our hatred of finding poop smeared on the wall Jackson Pollack-style, and of discouraging our kids from "watering" the houseplants. We will fight on or die trying. (Either that or we will consume an entire pan of brownies to console ourselves).
I am a proud member of this group, although I am not a veteran yet. I am on the front lines. I am Verdun. I am Somme. My son has been on the potty train for two months, now. Having tired of merely sitting on the potty when he needs to go, he has decided to up the ante. Now, he enjoys pushing the poop out and sucking it in, thus making poop cheerfully blossom from his anus, creating a perfect stamp to decorate the carpet with. Now as I enter his room, I have to pick my way through fecal landmines, praying I don't step on one and detonate a high-pitch squeal of sheer agony from myself that only squirrels and five year-old girls can hear. The bonds of motherhood are quite strong, but there are some areas that it just doesn't cover. Here's one of them: The other day, (unbeknownst to me) Ethan had a poo-flower, and he needed an avenue to get rid of it. (He had been using his Froggie chair. He'd sit on the frog's head and then slide down its back to wipe. After having to borrow my sister's industrial washer twice for the redemption of this amphibian, I took it to Grandma's to recover). So, Ethan comes over to me, sits on my leg and slides off--leaving a trail of poo down my leg, and me speaking in tongues unfamiliar to men and angels.
The hardest part, for me, is not knowing when it will end. It could be months, or even a year. Right now, I'm trying not to crawl into a corner and into the fetal position--rocking back and forth and drooling graham cracker on myself. So to everyone who's been through it, lucky you. You're done. To all who's going through it now, let us unite in our hatred of finding poop smeared on the wall Jackson Pollack-style, and of discouraging our kids from "watering" the houseplants. We will fight on or die trying. (Either that or we will consume an entire pan of brownies to console ourselves).
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